LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



Chap. Copyright No... 

Shelfi 



*&, 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



LYRICS 
OF BROTHERHOOD 



BY 


RICHARD 


BURTON 




Dumb in 


June 


75 cents 


Literary 


Likings : A 


Book of 




Essays 




$i 


5° 


Memorial Day and 


Other 




Poems 




*i 


.oo 


Small, Maynard & Company 






Boston 







LYRICS 
OF BROTHERHOOD 

/ 

RICHARD BURTON 




BOSTON 
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 



M DCCC XCIX 



UUI 1 f lutfv fmall, Maynard iff Company. 
4&Sl**>d/ {Incorporated.) 



Entered at Stationers' HalL 



\ 



43628 

TWO COPIES RECEIVED, 



^ 




copy; 



Rockwell and Churchill Press 
Boston, U.S.A. 






if 

Due acknowledgments are made to the 
' editors of the Atlantic, the Century, Har- 
per's Magazine, the Cosmopolitan, the 
Bookman, the Critic, the Independent, 
and the Outlook for permission to reprint 
poems originally appearing in those pub- 
lications. 



Contents 

black sheep Page 3 

" THE MORN IS FINE " \ 

THE WORLD PLAY 5 

THE HUMAN TOUCH J 

NOSTALGIA 8 

OLD SONGS 9 

THE FOREFATHER IO 

TO— MORROW AND TO— DAY 12 

THE POLAR QUEST I 3 
WAR NOTES : 

I FALSE PEACE AND TRUE 1 4 

II EXTRAS 1 4 

III PRO PATRIA MORI I 5 

IV PARADES l6 
V DECORATION DAY I J 

THE SPHINX l8 

CITIES OF ELD 20 

A CHOPIN PRELUDE 23 

THE WAYS RETURN 24 

THE ELEMENTAL JOYS 25 

THE NORTH LIGHT 26 

LIGHT AND SHADE 28 

CHILD-PLAY 29 

LIFE 30 

THE ETERNAL FEMININE 3 1 

A WESTERN SCENE 32 

THE MODERN SAINT 33 

SEALED ORDERS 34 

BLACK OAKS 35 

HAYING TIME 36 



changeless Page 37 

" IN SPEAKING OF THE LITTLE ONES WE LOVE " 38 

GOSPELS 39 

TRAVEL 40 

THE QUEST OF SUMMER 4 1 

ON THE LINE 48 

CLEAR HEAVENS 50 

TWO BARDS 51 

PLAINT OF THE PINE 52 

TRAGEDIES 5 3 

FLASHES 54 

LAUREL 55 

MARY MAGDALEN 56 

PICTURES 57 

THE DREAM AND THE WAKING 58 

LIFE AND SONG 59 

INTERPRETATION 60 

THE NATIONAL AIR 6 I 

A PRELUDE 62 

IN THE GRASS 63 

THE POET TO THE CLOUD 64 

A STORM 65 

THE LILY 66 

THE MUSIC STRAIN 67 

A MADRIGAL 68 

GYPSIES 69 

A LEGEND OF THE MOON 7° 



Lyrics of Brotherhood 



BLACK SHEEP 

FROM their folded mates they wander far, 
Their ways seem harsh and wild; 
They follow the beck of a baleful star, 
Their paths are dream-beguiled. 

Yet haply they sought but a wider range, 

Some loftier mountain-slope, 
And little recked of the country strange 

Beyond the gates of hope. 

And haply a bell with a luring call 

Summoned their feet to tread 
Midst the cruel rocks, where the deep pitfall 

And the lurking snare are spread. 

Maybe, in spite of their tameless days 

Of outcast liberty, 
They're sick at heart for the homely ways 

Where their gathered brothers be. 

And oft at night, when the plains fall dark 

And the hills loom large and dim, 
For the Shepherd's voice they mutely hark, 

And their souls go out to him. 

Meanwhile, " Black sheep! Black sheep!" we 
cry, 

Safe in the inner fold ; 
And maybe they hear, and wonder why, 

And marvel, out in the cold. 



-THE MORN IS FINE" 

THE morn is fine, the wind smells sweet ; 
The nomad man that lurks in me 
Arouses, and I fain would meet 
The fellowship of vagrancy 

Along the mountain roads of day. 

Hail, foot-farers from near and far ; 
Ye who do love the wandering way 

Of Beauty, show what stuff ye are, 

And face the westward-luring path : 

The hours are yours 'twixt dawn and night ; 

And since that Youth's sure aftermath 
Is Memory — use the day aright, 

That by the fire, when evening's here, 
Your cronies gathered close around, 

The old-time deeds may twinkle clear, 
And peace be in the back-log's sound. 



THE WORLD PLAY 

( u AND ALL THE MEN AND WOMEN MERELY 
PLAYERS ") 

THE entrance-price you willy-nilly pay, 
Sit with your kind, take pleasure, if you may, 
Or puzzle at the meaning of the play. 

Comedy 
The humors of the time, the painted show 
Of character, the Attic salt of wit ; 
Now, laughter lifts it high, now, tender woe 
For a pale moment o'er the stage must flit, 
To make the main plot merrier ; maids and men 
Teach life is sweet and love may come again. 

Melodrama 
See how the swashbucklers swagger ! 

Hark to the villain's dark cry ! 
Much is a-doing and many are ruing. 

Innocents, destined to die, 
Haply, with thrust of a dagger. 
Evil frustrate and virtue tried and true, 
Romance, adventure, sleight, and derring-do, 
The earth's wide passions served up hot for you ! 

Farce 
See the buffoon's fat cheeks ballooning out ! 
Thwack ! the lath sword descends, guffaws are 

rife 
'Midst gallery gods, with many a boorish shout 
Of approbation. Yet, 'tis part of life, 

5 



The And honest too, — the grammarless, crude heart 

World Of one's own kinsmen, and this stir-about 
" Is wholesome, though it lack the soul of art. 

Tragedy 
Slow evolution to a fateful close ; 
Deepest of dramas knocking at our soul ; 
Glints of the gay, but gloom that spreads and 

grows 
Towards some sardonic end, the gruesome goal 
Of all the light, the motion, and the glee 

Pranked out high-heartedly. 
Behind man's quest and woman's sacrifice, 
Bravery and risk and lure of ardent eyes, 

Quieting the stir, 
Mingling mould-odors with love's sweetest myrrh, 
Forever looms and glooms the sepulchre ! 

Epilogue 
Great Watcher of the whole, the modey shift 
Of play and counterplay, sole Critic, who 
Must understand, because Creator too ; 
Prompter and playwright both : the curtains lift 
And fall, while joy and sorrow interweave ; 
We know full well what time to smile or grieve, 
No more ; the ultimate meaning's shut from view. 
The world-play act by act moves on, and we 
Are shaken by its moods, — mirth, anguish, 
mystery. 



THE HUMAN TOUCH 

HIGH thoughts and noble in all lands 
Help me; my soul is fed by such. 
But ah, the touch of lips and hands, — 

The human touch ! 
Warm, vital, close, life's symbols dear, — 
These need I most, and now, and here. 



NOSTALGIA 

ALL through their lives men build or dream 
them homes, 
Longing for peace and quiet and household 
love ; 
All through their lives — though offering heca- 
tombs 
To worldly pleasures and the shows thereof. 

And at the last, life-sick, with still the same 
Unconquerable desire within their breast, 

They yearn for heaven and murmur its dear name, 
Deeming it, more than mortal homes are, blest. 



OLD SONGS 

THERE is many a simple song one hears, 
To an outworn tune, that starts the tears ; 
Not for itself — for the buried years. 

Perchance 'twas heard in the days of youth, 
When breath was buoyant and words were truth ; 
When joys were peddled at Life's gay booth. 

Or maybe it sounded along a lane 

Where She walked with you — and now again 

You catch Love's cadence, Love's old sweet pain. 

Or else it stole through a room where lay 
A dear one dying, and seemed to say : 
€€ Love and death, they shall pass away." 

It rises out of the Long Ago, 

And that is the reason it shakes you so 

With pain and passion and buried woe. 

There is many a simple song that brings 
From deeps of living, on viewless wings, 
The tender magic of bygone things. 



THE FOREFATHER 

"ERE at the country inn, 
I lie in my quiet bed, 
And the ardent onrush of armies 
Throbs and throbs in my head. 



H 1 



Why, in this calm, sweet place, 
Where only silence is heard, 

Am I ' ware of the crash of conflict — 
Is my blood to battle stirred ? 

Without, the night is blessed 

With the smell of pines, with stars ; 
Within, is the mood of slumber, 

The healing of daytime scars. 

'Tis strange — yet I am thrall 

To epic agonies : 
The tumult of myriads dying 

Is borne to me on the breeze. 

Mayhap in the long ago 

My forefather grim and stark 

Stood in some hell of carnage, 
Faced forward, fell in the dark ; 

And I, who have always known 
Peace, with her dove-like ways, 

Am gripped by his martial spirit 
Here in the after days. 

10 



I cannot rightly tell : The 

I lie, from all stress apart, Forefather 

And the ardent onrush of armies 
Surges hot through my heart. 



II 



TO-MORROW AND TO-DAY 

TO-MORROW hath a rare, alluring sound ; 
To-day is very prose ; and yet the twain 
Are but one vision seen through altered eyes. 
Our dreams inhabit one ; our stress and pain 
Surge through the other. Heaven is but to-day 
Made lovely with to-morrow's face, for aye. 



12 



THE POLAR QUEST 

UNCONQUERABLY, men venture on the 
quest 
And seek an ocean amplitude unsailed, 
Cold, virgin, awful. Scorning ease and rest, 
And heedless of the heroes who have failed, 
They face the ice floes with a dauntless zest. 

The polar quest ! Life's offer to the strong ! 

To pass beyond the pale, to do and dare, 
Leaving a name that stirs us like a song, 

And making captive some strange Otherwhere, 
Though grim the conquest, and the labor long. 

Forever courage kindles, faith moves forth 
To find the mystic flood way of the North. 



13 



WAR NOTES 

I False Peace and True 

THERE is a peace wherein man's mood is 
tame — 
Like clouds upon a windless summer day 
The hours float by ; the people take no shame 
In alien mocks ; like children are they gay. 
Such peace is craven-bought, the cost is great ; 
Not so is nourished a puissant state. 

There is a peace amidst the shock of arms 
That satisfies the soul, though all the air 
Hurtles with horror and is rude with harms ; 
Life's gray gleams into golden deeds, and 

where, 
The while swords slept, unrighteousness was 

done, 
Wrong takes her death-blow, and from sun to 

sun 
That clarion cry My Country ! makes men one. 

II "Extras" 

THE crocuses in the Square 
Lend a winsome touch to the May ; 
The clouds are vanished away, 
The weather is bland and fair ; 
Now peace seems everywhere. 
Hark to the raucous, sullen cries : 
" Extra ! Extra ! " — tersely flies 
The news, and a great hope mounts, or dies. 



H 



About the bulletin-boards War Notes 

Dark knots of people surge ; 

Strained faces show, then merge 
In the inconspicuous hordes 
That yet are the Nation's lords. 

" Extra ! Extra ! Big fight at sea ! " 

Was the luck with us ? Is it victory ? 

Dear God, they died for you and me ! 

Meanwhile the crocuses down the street 

With heaven's own patience are calm and sweet, 

III Pro Patria Mori 

AS a gold and scarlet sunset 
Glories a sombre day, 
That else were all unmemoried, 
Dying in dusk away : 

Great acts man's day emblazon, 

God's lilies out of life's mud ; 
The splendid flower of heroes 

Out of a soil of blood. 

The date of the deed ? Who recks it ? 

Such moments are timeless things. 
Of old, Leonidas thrills us, 

He travels on Fame's wide wings ;~ 

Or, blithe through the Russian bullets, 

Rushes the Light Brigade 
To death — and the whole world echoes 

The sound of the charge they made. 

IS 



War Notes And now, — with the ancient valor, — 

In the clutch of a tropic sun, 
Our own Rough Riders conquer, 
Though the foe be four to one. 

The date of the deed ? 'Tis nothing ! 

Count it by tears or cheers. 
For the men who die for Country 

Have naught to do with the years ! 

IV Parades 
Civic Display 

THE uniforms gleam bright, and bands galore 
Play up the feet that step in time full gay ; 
This soldiering looks handsome ; hark, the roar 
That rends the very skies of Spring to-day 
From mobile multitudes who line the way. 
Behold the grace and gallantry of war ! 

The Return of the Veterans 

Beneath grey gloom they tramp along : their tread 

Lacks rhythm ; faded, soiled, and torn their 
dress ; 
They wot of storm and peril, wounds that bled, 

And pains beyond imagination's guess. 

The lookers-on, struck mute by tenderness, 
Hardly huzza : it is as if the dead 

Walked with the quick. Beneath a brooding 
sky 

The bronzed and battered veterans limp by. 

16 



V Decoration Day War Notes 

THE uses of adversity are sweet : 
Red war, the lust of conquest is forgot ; 
Beneath bland skies a nation stays her feet, 

To laud the hero, grace his sleeping-spot ; 
For every drop of blood old swords have let, 
The rose, the lily, and the violet. 



17 



THE SPHINX 

WHAT is her silence saying, 
As she peers from her stony eyes, 
Creature of massive sternness, 
Woman of monstrous size ? 

Ever the ages ask it 

Of the Deity of the Sands, 
And the Spirit of Egypt answers, 

The ancient one of the lands : 

" Drought is my old-time menace, 
Rain brings my happy while, 

I blossom forth like a garden 
With the flooding of the Nile. 

"It means good grain for my people, 
Yea, life for my maids and men ; 

My kings in their great hewn sepulchres, 
E'en they grow joyful then. 

S€ In the Sign of the Lion stately, 
In the Sign of the Virgin too, 

Do the waters come upwelling, 
And the fields turn fair to view. 

" So of old my servants builded 
The Sphinx; she rose amain, 

A shape half beast, half human, 
Above the burning plain ; 



18 



" For a sure, eternal token The Sphinx 

Of reverence and praise, 
A sacrifice to Father Nile 

Done in the elder days. 

"And if, in Time's later lapses, 

Innumerous aliens come 
To guess at her mystic semblance, 

And her front seems riddlesome, 

" My race will comprehend her, 

Their goddess, and laud her high 
In her worship of the waters 

Beneath a rainless sky." 



19 



CITIES OF ELD 

IN the Orient uplands afar, 
Beyond the roof of the world, 
Strange buried cities are, 

Where over the winds have whirled 
And the Sky's bleak stormings swirled 

For century-sweeps of time. 
They lie deep hid in the slime, 

Or frore in their ancient shroud, 
Careless of clear or cloud, — 

But dimly imagined of man. 

There once the opulent East, 

With sumptuous caravan 
And blithe bazar and feast, 

Rejoiced in the gifts of life ; 
And love allured, and strife 

Was wine to the conquering strong. 
There women with ardent eyes 

Drew souls to sacrifice, 
And the day of work seemed long 

Till it brought the night of rest, 
When the instruments of the dance 

Made the hours a happy trance ; 
And jewels were thrown to the best 

In wit or story or song. 

The silver of temple bells 

Clove through the sunset gold, 

Or else, in these cities old, 
Called the early to prayer, 
20 



When the swart, unhurrying throng Cities of Eld 

Paced to their altars there ; 
The splendid pillars upsoared 

Circled with painted scenes 
From the midst of the forest greens ; 

And marbled fountains plashed 
And swords processional flashed, 

When the gaping crowds stood fast, 
Beholding some mighty lord 

Go by, with his pomp of state. 



Alas, for the fall of fate ! 

Look ! there is nothing there ; 
Listen ! no sound is heard, 

Save haply a vagrant bird 
Or a wind-wail, or the blare 

Of thunder ; — there is no worth 
Of merchandise, no mirth, 

No lyric word of love ; 
Great, savage seams of earth 

Cover the marks thereof. 
"Tis only but now and then 

That venturesome modern men 
Set forth on a hard-won quest 

From the fresher world of the West, 
To stand in that silent Vast 

And remember them of the Past. 
'Tis scarcely more than a dream, 

This olden worship and lust, 
This fragrance smothered in rust, 

This beauty of transient gleam ; 

21 



Cities of Eld A symphony sunk to a moan, 

A famine after a feast ; 
The most are like to the least ; 

The towers are razed, are prone, 
Yea, all of the folk are dust 
And even their gods unknown. 



22 



A CHOPIN PRELUDE 

A CERTAIN Chopin prelude once I heard. 
Strive as I may to tell, no mortal word 
Can all-express that music. Like a bird 
My soul went up the blue — the sweetest pain, 
The deepest passion, love without a stain, 
A high and holy yearning that had lain 
Buried, did come in a white company, 
In tremulous procession, unto me. 
For an immortal moment I was free 
O' the flesh, and leaped in spirit and was- 

strong 
With beauty, shaken by magic of that song. 



23 



THE WAYS RETURN 

MANY the ways that man must fare, 
The roads run up and down ; 
Some thrid the country hillsides fair, 
Some slink within the town. 

Some tortuous are and hard to keep, 

But others slip along 
Where gardens grow and fountains leap 

And speech is sweet, and song. 

Some stretch away 'midst alien sights, 
'Midst strange, far-lying things ; 

Others be near the native lights, 
Nor reck of journeyings. 

And oh, the lingering, long quest, 
The stumblings, triumphs, pain, 

The while man fares it east and west 
Ere he return again. 

But one boon, one, is sure to be, 

How far soe'er he roam : 
At last the wandering ways agree, 

At last they lead him home. 



24 



THE ELEMENTAL JOYS 

THE elemental joys ! How far away 
And dim they seem, amidst the modern fret ; 
The tumultuous probings, and the eyes tear-wet ; 
The dark forever treading on the day ! 

The elemental joys ! And yet, 

Behold them close at hand ! The open sky, 
And all her sweep and thrill ; the open fire, 
Sleeking the body to its heart's desire ; 

The white hands of the chosen home-mate — why, 
They all are goodly-nigh, 

Nor is death any greedier than of old: 
So, comrades, let us foot it free and bold, 

Win song and love and solace like a boy's — 
The elemental joys ! 



25 



THE NORTH LIGHT 

THE ARTIST SPEAKS 

GIVE me the room with a clear north light 
To paint my pictures in ; 
For how may the artist paint aright, 
And meed eternal win, 

Unless the sun come temperately 
Through the roof there, overhead ? 

Yea, the clear north light is the light for me, 
As the dark is for the dead ! 

If I let the fervid south fierce shine 

On the creatures of my brush, 
They are passion-warped, for the heat, like wine, 

Will set my blood a-rush ; 

Whereas, the artist, like God on high, 

Must work in no hot whim ; 
Aroused, yet calm, with a steady eye, 

While the centuries gaze at him. 

There is love that lasts and a patience long 

In his forms and colors sure ; 
And the light he needs, that he go not wrong, 

Is a high light, sane and pure. 

When the great Thought comes and the gleam of 
Power, 
There is warmth divine in his soul; 
But the labor drugs him hour by hour 
And far away is the goal ; 
26 



So, for masterv, and the deed well done, The 

He must cleanse his sight of all North Li 8 ht 

The quick distempers bred in the sun 
That take weak men in thrall. 

Must nurse the spark and the vision swift 

In the chastened light of the sky ; 

That the work, though slow, have a heavenward 

lift, 

That the Beautv mav not die. 

f 

In the place where the pictures have their birth 

Give me a north light clear, 
^ ith more of God and less of earth 

In the quiet atmosphere. 



27 



LIGHT AND SHADE 

THIS one knows joy, and says: " Ah, 
Life is sweet ! " 
And sorrow this one : " Nay, 'tis drowned in 
tears." 
Meanwhile, the picture is made all complete 
By God, great Chiaroscurist of the years, 
Who uses light and shade, and in whose thought 
The whole is clearly limned and calmly sought. 



28 



CHILD-PLAY 

AS children play with toys, 
So men with hopes and fancies : 
The little ones with romp and noise 

Build card-frail, gold romances ; 
Their elders through the perilous years 
Build dreams — and wake to toil and tears. 

But, old or young the same, 

The glittering baubles please them ; 

And be it fame or game, 

These make-believes release them 

From iron circumstance, from drear 

Realities that choke them here. 



29 



LIFE 

FRIENDLY it stands, yon Inn upon the plain, 
And keen the lamps burn through the cryptic 
night. 
How jocund sound the voices, and how bright 
The cheer ! how warm the housing from the rain ! 

The traveller, once arrived, forgets the long, 
Blank journey leading thither ; all the dim, 
Mysterious days are nothing now to him, 

Seated amidst the food and wine and song. 

But when, the reckoning paid, his comrades fled, 
He steps upon the road and moves away, 
His soul is puzzled sore — he cannot say 

What Inn it was, or by whom tenanted. 



SO 



THE ETERNAL FEMININE 

FOREVER shall she beckon. Men may prate 
Of custom, fashion, change, — still doth she 
call 
To high endeavor ; dreams begotten thence 
Turn with the day to deeds chivalric ; vows 
Are pledged eternally before this shrine 
Whose taper-lights are stars, whose choristers 
Are souls bowed down with Beauty. Years on 

years 
But dim the garments of the worshippers, 
The light, the lure, are constant. All too brief 
Is Time wherein to follow from afar 
The Way of Wonder leading down to Love. 
Look, at the alley-end she sways and smiles, 
Fresh as a morn-birth, fair as paradise, — 
Yet ancient as the moaning of the sea ! 



3' 



A WESTERN SCENE 

THE land puts on a haggard look ; 
For branchless boles of trees uprise 
In straggling groups, in tragic wise, 
Black, weather-beaten, God-forsook. 

Upon the plain, in high relief 

Against wide heaven, you may see 
Them flaunt spectacular misery, 

Stamping a summer scene with grief. 

Yet somewhile in the long ago 
Blossomed and bloomed an Eden-show 
Of beauty here — where now is this 
Bleak picture of a wilderness ? 



32 



THE MODERN SAINT 

NO monkish garb he wears, no beads he tells, 
Nor is immured in walls remote from strife. 
But from his heart deep mercy ever wells ; 
He looks humanely forth on human life. 

In place of missals or of altar dreams, 

He cons the passioned book of deeds and days ; 

Striving to cast the comforting sweet beams 
Of charity on dark and noisome ways. 

Not hedged about by sacerdotal rule, 

He walks a fellow of the scarred and weak. 

Liberal and wise his gifts ; he goes to school 
To Justice ; and he turns the other cheek. 

He looks not holy ; simple is his belief ; 

His creed for mystic visions do not scan ; 
His face shows lines cut there by others' grief, 

And in his eyes is love of brother-man. 

Not self nor self- salvation is his care ; 

He yearns to make the world a sunnier clime 
To live in ; and his mission everywhere 

Is strangely like to Christ's in olden time. 

No mediaeval mystery, no crowned, 

Dim figure, halo-ringed, uncanny bright. 

A modern saint : a man who treads earth's ground, 
And ministers to men with all his might. 



33 



SEALED ORDERS 

WE bear sealed orders o'er Life's weltered sea, 
Our haven dim and far ; 
We can but man the helm right cheerily, 
Steer by the brightest star, 

And hope that when at last the Great Command 

Is read, we then may hear 
Our anchor song, and see the longed-for land 

Lie, known and very near. 



34 



BLACK OAKS 

THE leaves of the black oak linger the 
winter through 
In the woods of the wide Northwest ; leech- 
like they cling 
To the branch, and they nowise yield * to 
blight and snow, 
Presences dun and mystic ; oft is the view 

Framed in their subtle richness ; oft they ring 
Horizons else remote as the Long Ago. 
The leaves of the black oak bide, and for me 

their grace 
Has a conjuring touch of home, of a dear lost 

place ; 
I forget the plains, I behold New England's face. 



35 



HAYING-TIME 

IN the meadows the men are haying : 
I can hear the creak of the cart, 
I can see the play of the muscles, 
And the honest sweat outstart. 

But the blue sky, calm and ample, 
With tranquil speech doth say : 

" Why sweat, O ye tiny toilers, 
When your work is for a day ? " 



36 



CHANGELESS 

LOVE hath full many semblances : Now this 
Fair face doth lure, now yonder smile re- 
makes 
A sorry world ; now at a mad-cap kiss 
We build unstable dreams : the vision takes 
A myriad forms, and hath the charm thereof. — 
But ever, in the background, soareth Love, 
One deathless creature poised beyond, above ! 



37 



« IN SPEAKING OF THE LITTLE ONES 
WE LOVE" 

IN speaking of the little ones we love 
Our souls grow warm and tender : Young-of- 
Years 
So helpless seems, yet valiant, trusting all 
It sees, and putting faith in the Unseen ; 
Deeming the whole cold-hearted outer world 
A mother-embrace, a bosom for its sleep. 

We men are little ones before high God : 

In pain, in sickness, and in moods that yearn 

For consolation, or when we intrust 

Our pigmy bodies to their night-still beds, 

The spirit feels its youth and feebleness 

And turns like any weak, perplexed child 

Toward home, toward father, mother, and the 

things 
Indwelling, known of old, and longed for still, 
'Midst infinite barrenness and all unrest. 

We men are little ones before high God : 
The boasts of brain, the passions of the mind 
Are nothing, set beside the one brief hour 
Of faith re-born, calm dreams, and utter love. 



38 



GOSPELS 

TWO Gospels there are of the years 
That haunt men, and follow them after 
And one is the Gospel of tears, 
The other the Gospel of laughter. 

The Gospel of laughter is good, 

For it sweetens the gall of our sorrow ; 

Therethrough is slow anguish withstood 
And the spirit trussed up for the morrow. 

The Gospel of tears is divine, 

For it makes us draw closer together, 

And shows us the beacon and sign 
Of souls, in Life's stormiest weather. 

Two Gospels there are of the years, 

Rich-crowning our grief and our pleasure : 

The Gospel of laughter, of tears, 

With meanings that man may not measure. 



39 



TRAVEL 

SIT in mine house at ease, 
Moving nor foot nor hand ; 
Yet sail through unchartered seas 
And wander from land to land. 



I 



And though I may travel far, 
It is always well with me ; 

I can come from an outmost star 
At a touch, at a call from thee. 



40 



r 



THE QUEST OF SUMMER 

I 

HAD been waiting long 
For its coming, 
For the time of bird-song 
And the humming 
Of the bees and the smell of May grass, 
Till it seemed that the winter sleep never would pass 
To the buoyant bright waking of summer, 
Sweet comer, 
With the mood of a love-plighted lass. 

But it came, 
In a garment of sensitive flame 
In the west, and a royal blue sky overhead, 
With exuberant breath and the bloom of all things 
Having wonders and wings, 
Being risen elate from the dead. 
Yea, it came with a flush 
Of pied flowers, and a turbulent rush 
Of spring-loosened waters, and an odorous hush 
At nightfall, — and then I was glad 
With the gladness of one who for militant months 
has been sad. 

Then for days, 
In the warm noon haze, 
In the freshness of morning or spirit-still mood of 
the night, 
My delight 
Was wordless and deep, was a benison straight 
from my God ; 

4 1 



The Quest For the sky and the sod 

of Summer Were marvels, and living a joy, and dun winter a 
myth ; 
But therewith 
Crept a change, — no swift spasm of nature, no 

death 
Of brightness and beauty, but soberer drawing of 
breath 
That follows on rapture ; no pall 
Of sorrow, but splendid and bounteous Fall, 
Whose veil is soft silver, who heralds a festival 
Of harvests and hopes and desires, 
Around whose fires 
Dance satyrs and nymphs and young Bacchus the 

jocund, whose shapes 
Are purply with time-mists and grapes. 

Then I knew 
How September's most opulent blue 
Must merge in October's calm gold, 
As ever of old ; 
A month thorough-thrilled with the prescience of 
ultimate pain ; 
That again 
Would follow November wind-writhen and sere, 
Then winter, a wild-mannered fere. 
So I said : " I will hasten from here, 
I will win to what climes are more winsome and 

warm, 
Where skyey beatitudes are, and no storm 
• May startle them out of their passionless norm 
Of peace ; 

42 



Where release The Quest 

From weathers shall last through each day of the of Summer 

seven, 
So long as below is the earth and above is the 
heaven." 

So when the season came of hooded skies, 

Of wailing voices and of cheerless ways, 
I ventured forth upon this sole emprise, 

Nor saw my mother-land for many days. 

II 

Soft slumbrous breathings of the enchanted noon 
That drift and sift across the lapsed lagoon ; 
The hush of heat, and for a constant tune 
The languid silver swash of Southern seas. 

The cocoa palms seem tranced upon the air 
With cassia odorous ; all bright and bare 
Of sails the sea ; the coral reefs gleam fair 
Along the beach, and boom the big swart bees. 

Here in this island-haunt a soul may rest 
Like to a child upon the mother-breast, 
Dreaming no dream that is not smooth and blest, 
Nor waking save to solaces as dear. 

Night follows noon, and then each star above 
Looms like a moon and pulses life and love ; 
The waters moan as moans a rapt white dove, 
And whilom water-fowls make clamor clear. 



43 



The Quest How long have I been here ? Ah, who can tell ? 
of Summer j he hours are but es trays of Time —no bell 
Tinkles to warn the islanders ; but well 
They know the day-dawn : It was yesteryear, 

Perchance, or yesterday ; it matters not, 
There are no hounding cares to make a blot 
Upon Life's face, to rouse the tranced spot 
Into unease and bodings fraught with fear. 

How can I e'er be sad, so bathed in bliss ? 
Here is unceasing summer ; here, I wis, 
One need but lie and watch the sky-line kiss 
The waves, and pluck the poppy in the sand. 

Unceasing summer, aye ; . . and far from 

home ! 
How many countless leagues across the foam 
The sail-sick mariner must rock and roam 
Before he sight the long-witholden land ! 

And there are icy wind and barren snow, 
And here all tropic splendors bloom and blow ; 
Then who would leave it, nor be loth to go 
From pleasance such to breast a wintry clime ? 

Lo, for the asking, lemons, mangoes, milk, 
And berries, shedding fragrance ; soft as silk 
The bed whereon I lie, the breezes ilk 
That fan my face, the bath at morning-time. 



44 



Below, a myriad colors on the earth, The Quest 

Around, a shifting miracle, a birth of Summer 

Of beauty new, and ever wonder-worth ; 
Above, the great deep sapphire of the sky. 

It were a marvel did a man regret 

Within this June eternal : ah, but yet 

I feel mine eyes north-gazing, sometimes wet. 

Mayhap it is mere surfeit of delight, 

Or is it love and longing for the lost 
Keen raptures of a country tempest-tossed, 
By all the savageries of nature crossed 
And crowned with cold, as kings with circlets 
bright ? 

Nay, ask me not ; but I must now away, 
Seeking my native land, as wanderers may, 
Homesick, and taught by every flawless day 
How better than all else the old-time things. 

I must away — so fetch my lithe canoe 

To dare the foam and tread the sea-halls blue. 

A swift farewell, O Isle of Dreams, to you, 

Southern Cross, see where in heaven it 
swings. 

Ill 

1 came with the winds and the weather 

To the well-beloved place, 
And I recked not a rose-worth whether 
Sere winter had showed his face 

45 



The Quest On the sea and the land, 

of Summer In the icy ^ 

Or whether the year was bland and fair : 
All weather was seemly weather, 

Because it was homelike there. 
In those sunshine isles of the Southern sea 
The old keen joyance had slipt from me, 

I sated soon of the ceaseless boon 

Of drowsy days by the still lagoon. 

But now my thoughts were interblent with birds 
And blandishments of morning ; all the land 

Was lovely past the putting it in words, 

Yet changeful as a maid who gives her hand, 

But will not do it wantonly, for fear 

It make her seem less dear. 

So the secret was won forever, 

And I hugged it tight to my breast : 

How the life all-summered, never 
Knows passion nor joy's behest. 

How the spring change wakes to rapture 

The spirit so long asleep, 
And the May month seems to capture 

A bliss that is twofold deep 

When it follows hard on a sullen time 
Of cheerless fields and of limping rhyme, 
With a lyric thrill and a burst sublime. 



4 6 



So my quest of summer was over ; The Quest 

The time of corn and of clover, of Summer 

Of robin and rose and radiant hours, 
Came to my door as a welcome guest, 
Welcome with birds and flowers, 
And I feasted fine in the warmth and scent ; 
But when 'twas o'er I was well content, 
Facing the sober fall with zest ; 
Nor winter frore 
Could evermore 
Be aught but a rough-wayed friend to me, — 
A friend who had preached high-heartedly 
Courage, faith in the good-to-be. 

For the sweetest of all seasons 
Is that which follows pain, 
And the best of winter's reasons 
Is the summer here again. 



47 



ON THE LINE 

A LITTLE picture hung — its peaceful 
stretch 
Of sunny field ; its glimpse of shady lane 
Wherein the cattle, stragglers ponderous, 
Made leisurely advance ; its distant hills 
That left the background dreamy, and above, 
Beyond, the summer sky white-flecked with 

cloud, — 
Dulled down and killed because on either side 
Were canvases of other themes and tones. 
The eye, confused by these so variant thoughts, 
Must wander helplessly, nor stay to judge 
The patient artist's meaning; so the small 
And modest picture missed its due effect. 

'Twas bought by one who had the seeing soul. 
One day he showed it me within a room 
Where all was harmonized to suit its mood. 
I found it hard to think my memory 
Had played me false, so foully disesteemed 
The treasure that mine eyes must now behold : 
The wealth of coloring, the breadth and range, 
The worship breathing through and under all. 

'Tis thus with men. Alive, they josde past, 
Shoulder to shoulder with some fellow-man 
Who draws our gaze away. We hardly know 
If they be gods or ghosts, so carelessly 
We sense their presence. Death lifts up his hand 
And beckons once ; they follow, leave the crowd. 

+ 8 



We straight collect their words and scattered On the Line 

deeds, 
Abstract our thoughts from off the busy world, 
And study all that went to make them rare, 
Until they stand disburdened and declared. 
Then, next, we garnish up a pedestal, 
Unused before, and lift their image high 
For wise posterity in after-time 
To humbly pause and view them, stern in stone. 



49 



CLEAR HEAVENS 

THE sky is wind-swept, and the golden air, 
Rain -washed, is crystal-clear and keen to 

breathe. 
The hills since yesterday have shaken off 
Their dim aloofness, and uprise so near, 
Clean cut and purple ' gainst the brow of morn, 
They startle you. There is a brilliancy 
Set like a seal on earth and heaven ; it seems 
As if all Nature made her ready for 
Some festival, some august guest to come 
And tarry for a day. Some joy-to-be 
Haunts in the field, inhabits all the woods, 
And thrids the blue ; nor e'en night's darker 

mood 
Dispels the strong illusion : since the stars 
Shine brighter than their wont, and breezes blow 
The message, " Patience ; it will all come true." 



5o 



TWO BARDS 

A BARD who wrote in staves 
Once made a heathen hymn. 
It had this stern refrain, 
That moved as though in pain : 
€€ The under-glimpse of graves 
Makes the sea grim." 

A south-land singer sung 

With happy heart and free. 
The living, not the dead, 
He dealt with, and he said : 
** The world is glad and young, 
And good to me." 

And ever since, mankind 
Is shuttled back and forth 
Between these singers twain 
Of glad and sad refrain : — 
The southland warm and kind, 
The bitter north. 



51 



PLAINT OF THE PINE 

I FOUND a pine that shot its solemn bole 
Twice fifty feet against the summer sky 
From out a sunless gorge ; and sad of soul 
It seemed, until I sought to question why ; 
Whereat the tree moaned darkly — made this 
strange reply : 

" I am troubled betimes, I am sad in my sleep, 
Foreboding the day I shall stagger and leap 
And tremble through tempests o'er seas that are 
deep. 

" They will fashion me forth for a ship ; they will 

make 
My stature and girth but a mock ; they will break 
My branches and rend me for merchanting' s 

sake. 

" Eternal unease shall be portioned to me, 
A creature firm rooted and fain so to be, — 
Eternal unease on the shifting, loud sea. 

€( For each to his nature ; and mine is to grow 
Tall, sombre, and steadfast, and gravely a-row 
With brothers as grave, while the centuries go. 

"I am troubled betimes, I am sorely oppressed, 
As I ponder and dream on my mother-earth's 

breast, 
With a fear of the ocean, that knoweth not rest." 



52 



TRAGEDIES 

TWO kinds there are : the one theatric, bold, 
A murder, maybe, horrible to see, 
Lives lost by fire or flood, and bodies cold 
That speak some tale of awful agony ; 

The other, mumming 'neath a milder name : 
A human soul that as the days go by 

Sinks deeper down into some pit of shame, 
Yet knows the stars shine silvery and high. 



53 



FLASHES 

A FLASH of the lightning keen! 
And io! we know that, miles on miles, 
The dim, lost land is lying green. 

It brims our heart with joy, the whiles, 

To see that through the thick night-screen 

Full many a meadow smiles and smiles. 

A flash from the poet's brain! 

The meaning of the many years, 
That mazeful seemed, grows very plain ; 

The level lands of gloom and tears 
Hint holy heights, turn bright again ; 

The night a transient thing appears. 



54 



LAUREL 

ALONG the road in the month of June, 
With all the roses in their prime, 
The laurel blooms and hears the tune 
Of all the birds, for 'tis their time 
Of fullest, fairest singing. 

And no man meets awake, a-dream, 

A daintier pink on lady-cheek 
Than paints those clustered cups that seem 

Like nuns demure and over-meek, 
So close together clinging. 

Some flowers are for city walks, 

And some o'er love's light lattice climb ; 

And some are noisome on their stalks, 
While others scent the summer time 
In quiet garden closes. 

But most of all, methinks, I love 

Along some road of solitude 
To see the laurel, flower of 

A simpler yet a sweeter mood 
Than any mood of roses! 



55 



MARY MAGDALEN 

AT dawn she sought the Saviour slain, 
To kiss the spot where he had lain 
And weep warm tears, like Spring-time rain ; 

When lo ! there stood, unstained of death, 
A man that spake with slow, sweet breath ; 
And " Master ! " Mary answereth. 

From out the far and fragrant years, 
How sweeter than the songs of seers 
That tender offering of tears ! 



56 



PICTURES 

I 

A PALLID nun, by serge made doubly pale, 
Stoops to the pavement for a red, ripe leaf 
Dropt from a tree, and smiles beneath her veil 
In thinking this may soothe a sick child's grief. 

II 

A cool contralto voice that calms the soul, 

As night-wind calms the pulses hot with pain; 

And, crouching in a seat, the grave her goal, 
A wanton grown a simple girl again. 

Ill 

A street musician singing of the sea 

Amidst the shipping of a smoke -wrapt town ; 
Until a soft south breeze from Italy 

Touches the cheek, and fairer skies float down. 



57 



THE DREAM AND THE WAKING 

A DREAM slipped out of a wood : 
Ah, foolish dream ! 
You found no other good 
By stile, by stream 
(So would it surely seem), 
Like to the cool sweet wood 
With odors all ateem. 

But stay ! A slight girl stood, 

White browed, with clasped hands, 
Down in the meadow lands, 

Down in the meadow there, 

And fair, ah fair ! 
The dream, the wood forsaking, 

Wise in his way, full wise, 

Stopped because of her eyes, 
Stopped and found fair waking, — 
The dream slipped out of the wood 
And found a better good : 

The sweet pine haunts forsaking, 
He passed to a happy waking, 

To life in a maiden's eyes. 

Ah, he was wise ! 



58 



LIFE AND SONG 

IFE is the seed one soweth, 
f Song is the springing flower 
Life is the tear that floweth, 
Song is the happy hour. 



V 



For as the seed must tarry 
Under the chilly mould, 

Only to swell and carry 
Savor in every fold ; 

And as the tear prepareth 
Hearts for the coming bliss, 

And by the pain it beareth 
Widens the soul for this ; 

So will a seed of sorrow 
Blossom my life along ; 

So will a tearful morrow 
Write me a deeper song. 



59 



INTERPRETATION 

A SORROWER went his way along, 
And I heard him sing and say : 
€€ The noon is bright, but soon the night 
Will come, the grave of the day." 

Then I smiled to hear his woful song 

And sent this word for nay : 
t€ The noon is bright, but the blackest night 

Cradles another day." 



60 



THE NATIONAL AIR 

I SAT at home and heard an air 
Played slow and solemnly ; 
But slow or swift, I did not care, 
It nothing spake tome, 

'Twas hackneyed, stale, I could but smile 
To think how some will cheer, 

Yea, daundess tramp through death' s defile, 
If but that song be near. 

In after days I heard again 

This anthem rolling grand ; 
But now I sat 'midst foreign men 

Within a foreign land. 

And in a trice my soul took flame, 

My blood was fire in me ; 
I trembled at my country's name 

With love and fealty ! 



61 



A PRELUDE 

LITTLE conjurer of keys, 
You shall play me, and you please, 
From the masters, music-blessed, 
Playing what I love the best : 

Something sweet of Schumann's make, 
Something sad for Chopin's sake ; 
Then a waltz with gayer graces 
Born of Liszt and pleasant places. 

Next, to sway my dreaming soul, 
Play a Schubert barcarole ; 
And, to wake me from the trance, 
Just a tricksy Spanish dance. 

Now a fugue of Bach's, a song 
Weaving thoughts of right and wrong ; 
And a thing of airy tone 
That belongs to Mendelssohn. 

A sonata-strain whose grief 
Gave Beethoven's heart relief; 
Last a melody divine 
From the soul of Rubinstein. 

Playing thus, the warp of life, 
Dark of hue and sorrow-rife, 
Shall be gladdened fold on fold 
With a woof of sunny gold, 
Woven from your melodies, 
Little conjurer of keys, 
62 



THE GRASS 

I AM one with waving things, 
Lying in the grass to-day ; 
Harkening to the song that rings 
When the robin has his say. 
Cares and crosses fall away, 
As the raindrops from the wings 

Of a bird. Amidst the hay 
I am one with waving things. 

I am one with waving things, 
For I do not speak aloud. 

Nay, the peace that silence brings 
Keeps me like a windless cloud, 
Till I clean forget the crowd 

Cityward, whose happenings 

Oft and o'er my soul have cowed, 

Dull and dead to waving things. 

I am one with waving things, 
For I lie and brood and grow 

Very full of bygone springs, 
Very full of dreams that flow 
Saplike after winter snow ; 

Brother to the bird that sings 
For a cause he may not know 

I am one with waving things. 



63 



THE POET TO THE CLOUD 

SOFT white cloud in the sky, 
Wise are you in your day : 
One side turned toward God on high, 

One toward the world alway. 
Soft white cloud, I too 
Would bear me like to you. 

So might I secrets learn 

From heaven, and tell to men ; 

And so might their spirits beat and burn 
To make it their country then. 

Soft white cloud, make mine 

Such manner of life as thine. 



6 4 



A STORM 

KEEN fiery furrows in the skyward field : 
The thunder's big black voice sounds loud 
and long, 
The wind, wild witch, has fitful shrieked and 

reeled 
From east to west, as stung by sense of wrong ; 
While from a tree, 'midst goodly green concealed, 
A fearless bird carols a careless song. 



65 



THE LILY 

THY loveliness is meek and free 
From arrogance, and yet I find 
A certain stately pride in thee 
That wakens revery in my mind. 

And well I ween why it is so ! — 

A lily once the Master took 
His lesson from, then let it go, 

But first he blessed it with a look. 

Ah ! who can doubt the flower was thrilled 
With tremblings strange, and raised its head 

With joy, its lovesome body filled 
With sense of what the Master said ? 

And lilies since, forevermore, 

Do hold them high, do bear them well, 
Do raise their cups more proudly, for 

The lily of the parable. 



66 



THE MUSIC STRAIN 



M 



USIC strain, where do you go, 
When you hush and vanish so ? " 



" Sure, I only take my rest 
In a spot that's beauty-blest." 

" Music strain, may mortals too 
Gird them up and go with you ? " 

" Nay, for I am all divine, 
And my country is not thine. ' ' 

€€ Music strain, will death reveal 
All the bliss you make us feel ? ' ' 

" Mortal, listen, love me well, 
And together we may dwell." 

" Yes, but when, O subtle song ! 
For the waiting seems so long ? * ' 

< * I will house thee safe and sure, 
When thy love is perfect-pure." 

"Ah, it seems I cannot stay 
For the break of such a day ! ' ' 

" Mortal, it is wondrous near ; 

Hope and hark, and have no fear." 



6 7 



A MADRIGAL 



APRIL eyes, April eyes, 
Alight with laughter, 
Where is the lucky swain 
Who in those blue orbs twain 
May read the answer plain 
He would be after ? 

April eyes, April eyes, 
Fast brimming over, 

Will he not come again ? 

Ah, after blue skies rain, 

After brief pleasure pain ; 
Love is a rover. 



68 



GYPSIES 

CHILDREN of the lost tribe, home-banished 
ones, 
Aliens and outcasts, — but rich dowered in 
The sun and shade and all the leagues of air, 
Ye are a sign and symbol of the race — 
The restless, unappeased race of man — 
Whose roots, mayhap, strike deep in some dear soil 
Long lost, but whose unsure and questing feet 
Wander, the while his eye that scans the blue 
Welcomes new vistas, and his seeking soul 
Camps for a night, — but with the morn's first 

sounds 
Girds up, to take the old eternal trail 
Godward, to find the Tent of Peace, wherein 
All nomads relish the home-keeping ways, — 
Clan of the wander-weary, tamed at last. 



69 



A LEGEND OF THE MOON 

NIGHTLONG I yearned so madly toward 
the moon, 
Meseemed she whispered low the ancient rune 
Of her past history — as strange a word 
On life and death and doom as e'er I heard : 
So wondrous strange it did my soul constrain 
To tell the tale again. 

A legend this of eld and other spheres : 
In times before the dawn of human deeds 
On earth, life swarmed upon the mystic moon, 
Where now is stony silence, — ages ere 
Chaldaeans probed the riddles of the sky, 
Or swart Egyptians slumbered in their tombs. 
The air was sweet for breathing ; all the ways 
Trembled with speech of folk or song of birds 
Blithe-mooded — cities clung along the slopes 
Or darkened on the plains, the land teemed tilth ; 
Wide-yawing ships swept over seas whose names 
Are immemorial ; wars raged red, and Art 
Thrust temples white where once the wild beast 

prowled, 
And in her limbec poured men's grosser thoughts 
Distilling dreams and subtle dews divine. 

The moon-man is the sole possessor now 
In those vast regions. He is known of all 
The children from their birth-while : him you see 
On cloud-clear nights (if you will patient peer) 
Sitting upon a round of massy stone 
Within a great grey desert where the light 
70 



Is ghostly wan. Upon his face is writ A Legend of 

Unuttered agonies of things long lost the Moon 

Yet keen remembered : rugged is his brow, 
And in his eyes a Horror blackly broods. 
But how he came, and why he sits alone, 
Behooves the telling — list, it happened thus : 

^Eons ago the gods had mind to make 
(For pleasure of their august realms) a world 
Of beings fleshed in bodies, but with souls 
Whose spark was like their own. Whereon they 

glanced 
About those primal heavens, and saw afar 
A little globe that wheeled a constant course 
Through space. And since it looked a seemly 

spot 
To nourish life, they spoke the fiat — then 
A cry of young humanity was heard 
Upon the moon. But ere the word was said 
That gave this dubious gift of living, lo ! 
The gods did set a bound to lunar years, 
To lives that dwell thereon : So long a time 
(They swore) as human face should look on face 
With faith and kindliness, might breath be drawn, 
And no whit after, — changeless the decree. 
Herein was shown most meet desire that love 
Be Lord of Life, that neither loveless crime 
Nor lust should harden hearts until that men, 
Wrapt up in self-hood, let their brothers go 
To bliss or bane unnoted : hence the law. 



71 



A Legend of Then ages fled and kingdoms waxed and waned 
the Moon j n ^^ m0 on-country with the march of time. 
But life, that first bloomed freshly, like a flower 
Sweet-natured with the air and rain and sun, 
Grew weed-like, noisome, foul. Thereon the 

gods 
Sent plagues to scourge : — the moon-folk heeded 

not. 
Then certain of the cities most engorged 
In fleshly ways, were smote ; as afterwhile 
The earth saw cities stricken in their pride : 
Sodom, Gomorrah, wide-walled Babylon, 
Whose monarch was anhungered with the kine. 
The people paused, but soon, emboldened, turned 
Unto their idol of the cloven hoof; 
And over all the land men's eyes were glazed 
Toward Love, and greedy but for sordid gain. 
Now came the gods to council, and the law, 
The ancient screed wherein was set the terms 
Of habitation on the doomed orb, 
Was gravely conned : and it was plain to see 
That total, fell destruction must ensue, 
If they would keep their word inviolate. 
And so with ponderous, grim debate they chose 
To send a rain of fire from heaven to scorch 
The world of men and women on the moon : 
Save only one, a hermit hoary, who 
Had all his days lived wisely, sought the light 
And loved his fellows. Leave him to his prayer, 
And suffer him to make a gentler end 
Whenso he wills, the mighty mandate read. 



72 



So was it done : one awful day and night A Legend of 

(Uncalendared within that dateless land) the Moon 

The liquid flame licked down, and ceasing, left 
Ashes and bones and formless waste, wherefrom 
The some-time splendor of a world had been. 
And he, the moon-man, whom the children know, 
The childlike hermit of this elder race, 
Was left alone. 

And now a bleak despair 
And sorrow nipped his blood, and he was fain 
To perish by his cave. But erst at eve 
He stood within a strange and windless plain 
And with lack-lustre gaze beheld where shone 
Through trackless leagues of space the clustered 

lights 
Of constellations, idly looked upon 
Fixed stars of vibrant flickerings, did mark 
The changeless glow of planets in their path, 
Argent or gold or ruddy-faced like Mars : 
And saw, or deemed he saw, or dreamed he saw, 
A shape, that moved upon one orb, the earth, 
A silver cirque that lit the nether sky. 
Whereat a tremor shook his spirit lax, 
And it grew tense : his soul was hung upon 
That shifting thing, that blot against a star, 
Until he knew it for a mortal man 
And wept, and cried aloud, to think that he 
Was less companionless. 

Thereafter, though 
His lot was gruesome and his sorrows lead 
Against his heart, a kind of pensive calm 

73 



A Legend of Settled within him as he watched our orb 

the Moon Th ro > years and sweeping cycles, e'en to Now. 
Nor had he will to die, because of this 
Weird watch and ward, this brooding over us. 
Nay, once he even smiled a moment's space, 
Beholding how a deed of charity 
Was done a lonesome soul : and once his eyes 
Looked dreamy in their sockets gaunt, because 
An earth-poet's fancy dubbed yon yellow ball 
An octoroon beside those slim white girls, 
The stars. But most his mood set sorrowward, 
And most his sighs were like the homeless wind 
That moans about the gables in the night. 
Sleep does not visit him from month to month : 
Mandrake nor poppy may not lure his eyes 
From earthward quest ; awake and sad, he seems 
To yearn within his poised and dizzy haunt 
For easement of the warning in his mind 
To us of earth, lest we let Love be lost 
— That crystal candle 'midst the bogs of hate 
And guile and lack-of-Love and lusts untamed — 
As did his kindred, so their sorry case 
Be ours : remembering that the self-same gods 
Shaped him and us and all. 

Be such his thoughts 
Or no, he keeps his vigil, and his front 
Looks dumbly down, — while I upgaze at him 
And wonder if his brain be not distraint 
With horrid weight of memory. Shall he find 
A final solace for a fate forlorn, 
And meet with us upon some higher sphere 
To commerce once again with human kind 

74 



By touch of hand and mouth and interchange A Legend of 
Of words, a long withholden boon to him ? the Moon 

So far the moon has whispered : here she stays 
Her silver secrets, leaves me unappeased. 

Along came Science in a surly mood 

Of introspection, harked awhile, nor spake, 

Frowned ominously, and then at length found 

speech, 
That made but tatters of my peopled moon, 
The mid-air ship that bore my single fleece 
Of story. 9 Tis a lie, quoth he, for ne'er 
Since chaos was there breath on yonder orb 
Nor moving wight, nor sound of speech nor song 
To make the mountains merry and the plains 
Vital and thick with voices : None but babes 
And sucklings can be fooled with such a myth. 
Whereat mine answer : Men are children still. 
And love their legends and their wonder-tales. 
Moreover, came the record not from heaven, 
From very heaven upon a cloudless night ? 
So, Science, leave me to my conjuring 
Of moons and mortals and of olden days. 



75 



OCT i4i 1899 



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